


Sacred Place

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Hidalgo (2004)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-15
Updated: 2004-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1626902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Frank finds his sacred place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacred Place

**Author's Note:**

> Written for frivol

 

 

The cold bit at his fingers as Frank dug into the earth with only an old knife to help him. He'd gotten the knife from his father and as such it seemed a fitting tool for digging his old man's grave. Not his father, but the man who had taught him how to hunt and how to pray. His guide. The only true father he'd ever known.

Hot tears ran down his dirt-caked face. The little warmth he had in his body left him with each drop and once they ran out he would be entirely empty. It felt like the frozen earth was swallowing him with every handful of dirt.

He leaned back and stared at the sky. He wanted to yell obscenities, he wanted some deity to come down and answer to him why this man, of all people, had to die. There was no answer to his silent call, just the hint of rain.

Frank T. Hopkins. Blue Child. Names that meant nothing, names that cancelled each other out. He could no more be a native of the plains than he could be a soldier like his father. He had no future and no place to go home to.

_O, our Father, the Sky, hear us and make us strong._

The wind picked up and carried with it the scent of a coming storm. The air tasted like ice and snow. Frank sat back and looked at the shallow hole and his fingers tingled with the work he'd done.

There was no way he could finish this before the storm was upon him, not if he intended to dig three feet deep. He'd worked for hours and only got a foot and a half. What he needed were stones, just small enough to be carried by a sixteen year old half-blood but strong enough to protect a great warrior for centuries.

_O, our Mother, the Earth, hear us and give us support._

He couldn't go far, not with wolves roaming the area, not when the packs were wild with hunger. Frank would not leave him to that unkind destiny. No. He just had to be faster, stronger, and somehow find a hundred stones for the funeral cairn.

He searched the vicinity and for once he was grateful that his home was little more than a cold desert for most of the year. There were a lot of rocks big enough to do the job and do it well. He tried to pick one up and grunted with the effort. They were heavier than they looked, or perhaps his numb arms protested at the abuse they'd been put through for the last few hours.

"Give me strength," he said under his breath, "give me strength, holy father."

He heaved the rock off the ground, heard the crackling of ice cold earth as it rescinded its grip, felt his muscles strain with the weight.

Despite his best effort it took far too long. Sleet and ice came down from the sky and pelted his back and head, the icy fingers of the wind crept under his clothes and under his skin. Dark clouds hovered over him like deadly portents. It felt like the world was ending.

_O, Spirit of the East, send us your wisdom._

And then he heard them howl. The wolves were on the hunt tonight, and perhaps he would be their first victim. The sound of their yips and yaps and long, sorrowful howls made his hair stand on end. Was this how his fate came to its inevitable conclusion?

He sought shelter on a tree.

Scattered members of the pack came out of the woodwork in several places that looked almost random, if it weren't for the inherent symmetry of their appearances. Frank watched as they circled the area although he had not yet seen their prey. Perhaps a small deer or a tired old buck. Maybe a sick old buffalo cow. Could be a shepherd's lost little lamb.

He was wrong.

They broke out of the undergrowth and stood upon a small hill, panting like the devil itself was behind them. The youngest, a pale mare not even six months old, was hurt badly. Her hind leg was bleeding from a deep vertical gash. The older mare and the other foal kept on going without looking back as the pack started in on them. They had left her as bait.

_O, Spirit of the South, may we tread your path._

Frank couldn't believe how angry it made him to see this display of nature in action. He'd grown up in a society bound by those rules and yet he harbored a sense of White Man's morals. He was weak at heart: his father had called it being a romantic, before he'd gone and left Frank and his mother to fight a war no one could possibly win.

The foal whinnied, but could not move fast enough to keep up with her family. They did not look back as they disappeared behind a hill, out of sight and out of mind for the predators on their heels. The foal would not be so lucky.

Frank made a decision.

He climbed down as fast as he could without making a sound. He gathered as many small rocks as possible in such a short time and ran for the clearing upon the hill that the foal had chosen as its funeral site. He would not let this happen. Death would get to fear him yet.

He stayed out of the wind, kept low to the ground and circled the area twice before he found an opening. The pack was hungry but they were wary of the situation. They expected a trap.

Frank had one chance. He made a break for the injured horse, hearing the excited barks of the wolves behind him. What had he gotten himself into? What kind of man was he that he thought he would be able to interfere with the natural order of things?

The foal raised her head and looked at him. The answer was right there, in deep brown eyes knowing fear and pain at far too young an age. He saw the fire in those eyes, the strength of a great heritage. He could not and would not let her die. Fate had brought him here to this moment to protect something beautiful.

The wolves disagreed. Their howls were insistent and much too close. He would be more food for them, perhaps a chance for their cubs to survive another week. It was a harsh world without compassion and the rules applied to him as well as the pack around him and the horse.

Sidling closer to her he spoke soft words to keep her calm. They made no sense to him, but the cadence and rhythm helped to ground him and calm his racing heart. It was a lullaby, something of his mother's he'd forgotten long ago.

Luck was on his side. The coming storm bothered even the hardy wolves and his presence threw them off. They howled with confusion and Frank began to smile. If he had to die, this was more than an appropriate way to do it.

The first wolf, a young male, attacked with much fervor but little intelligence. Frank waited as the tension in his muscles grew and the anxiety made the foal thrash and throw her head. The small moment of distraction was enough. He threw a small, sharp stone at the wolf's head. The impact made him yelp, then he stumbled, fell and did not get up again.

Frank fought off the pack for what seemed like hours as the storm picked up in intensity. At one point he could hardly see his own hands. He was shaking, from fear and the cold, but the soft breathing behind him was enough to keep him going. He had named her Coco.

_O, Spirit of the West, may we always be ready for the long journey._

Coco had long since given up the fight against gravity and was now lying on the ground, her hind leg strangely extended like it was no longer a part of her body. Frank worried about that, wondered in idle moments whether they would get through this only for her to die from the injuries.

Then night fell, the pack retreated and once he was sure they were gone, Frank dared to breathe freely once again. He collected an armload full of small twigs, wood that was dry enough despite the weather to serve as fuel for a small fire. It would protect them through the night.

Come morning the foal had gained remarkable strength. He woke to a heavy, coarse tongue that covered his face with ill-smelling spit. He had to grin despite himself.

They left for his tribe a few minutes later. He turned Coco over to the medicine woman and left again with two friends to take care of the funeral. When they arrived the body was gone and only a torn blanket was in its place. The wolves had taken prey after all.

Guilt and the knowledge that he couldn't have saved both, his mentor's body and the life of Coco, warred within his heart for a long time. His fate seemed tied to this place of death.

So he returned to this spot again, for penance and absolution.

The first time he meant to lose himself but found the most loyal companion, Hidalgo, who, as legend has it, was the son of Coco, born long after she'd returned to the wild once her injuries had healed.

_O, Spirit of the North, purify us with your cleansing winds._

The second time Frank Blue Child came to this place, he came to say good-bye. He didn't know why he came, at first, just that he had to. Hidalgo was there, old and frail, his once glorious pelt a patchwork of bald spots. Tears began to fill Frank's eyes, tears he had thought lost in that very same spot so long ago.

"It is good to see you, brother."

Hidalgo whinnied and threw his head in imitation of the great desert prince El-Hattal. Frank smiled, realizing that his old friend had no patience for tears on his last days.

Frank stepped closer, almost afraid to touch at first, but Hidalgo would not have it. He butted Frank's hand with his head and forced him to let go and embrace him. Finally, after years of wandering, Frank was home again.

In the distance he heard other horses, perhaps Hidalgo's family, and Frank buried himself deep in the mane of his oldest friend.

"I hope you were happy, with me and with your family, because you made me the happiest man I could be. The time you gave me was the best of my life."

Hidalgo made a sound that could only be described as a derisive snort. Frank laughed and patted him lightly. He hadn't changed, despite the frailty of his bones.

"Why did you call me here?" Frank asked, knowing now that it was why he had felt the need to come here again. "There's life in you yet, at least another summer."

Hidalgo whinnied and the sound carried through the area like thunder. An answering cry made Frank look up. There was a horse at the edge of the forest, a young male that had almost the same color and markings as Hidalgo. The heritage was unmistakable.

"I get it, you old bastard," he said with such joy and surprise in his voice that Hidalgo butted him again. They looked at each other and as Frank heard the young horse come closer he knew that this was their final good-bye. He would not see Hidalgo again, and it was as it should be. He wanted to remember the head-strong, smart stallion that had taken him to the end of the earth and back.

Frank "Blue Child" Hopkins had come on a Mustang whose name he hardly knew, and he left the site of his life's great turning points upon a legend.

Hidalgo won many races for Frank after that for years to come, and no one ever saw the difference between father and son. Some people said Hopkins never won another race again and some people said Hidalgo was the oldest horse to ever grace the face of the earth.

The truth was that Frank Blue Child and Hidalgo were friends for life and beyond. Neither death nor desert could tear them apart.

 


End file.
